Transformations
by samvimes
Summary: A little 'what if' based on Men at Arms, and the consequences of taking on new recruits...
1. Default Chapter

Aaaand two posts in one day! Why, you ask? I'm stuck in a room two and   
a half metres square with a laptop, an ethernet connection, and a big   
pile of research to do. When I am virtuous and complete one section of   
work, I allow myself to post :)  
  
This is just a fun 'what if' (fun for me, anyhow) that came to me   
while I was making breakfast one morning, and got scrawled in drawing  
pads and on scrap paper during lunch breaks and meetings and classes.   
Essentially, this is the story of Men At Arms, with a twist. This means   
that occasionally, the original story slips in. Maybe more than   
occasionally. But don't think of it as plagiarism; think of it as   
recycling, or homage. Sure.   
  
Now, I am sure there is no plausible parallel universe in which Sam   
Vimes would leave his wife for another woman (I'm saying nothing here  
about Patricians or Watch Captains), but there are probably a   
few where Sam Vimes didn't manage to acquire a wife. I also firmly   
believe that his feelings for the woman in question are entirely   
paternal. Not once is there a reasonable spark of anything else. Well,   
okay, /once/, maybe twice, but only if you really /want/ to see it   
there.  
  
But what if the spark was there?  
  
  
Transformations 1 / 3  
  
  
'Vetinari's terrier, I've heard them call you,' the Prince went on.   
'Always hot on the chase, they say, and he won't let go.'  
Vimes stared into the calm, knowing gaze.  
'I suppose, at the end of the day, we're all someone's dog,' he said.  
-- Jingo  
  
  
Consider how people own things.   
  
Like rooms.  
  
There are two rooms which, more or less, this man owns; a bedroom whose   
only personal touches are a razor, a sheet of cardboard under the bed,   
and a grubby trunk half-full of what personal belongings are important   
to the sort of man who doesn't even hang pictures on the walls. Not   
even a candle, because this room is used, not for living in or even for   
residing in, but merely for sleeping and washing in.   
  
The other room is larger, rather better-lit, and with bigger windows;   
drafty, because this is not a man who spends his time in rooms at any   
rate, and he likes the outdoors. There is a desk, covered in a   
reasonable amount of paper, because the Watch has yet to become the   
tree-killing, paper-generating machine that it someday will be. There   
is half a curry on one of the stacks of paper, and a mug of tea on the   
only bare patch.   
  
There is a squeaky chair, liberated from a store-room by young Carrot,   
for his Captain to use.  
  
It is occupied, of course, by the Captain, who is in the throes of a   
minor personal dilemma.   
  
A few months ago, the dilemma would already have been drowned in a   
couple of shots of cheap whiskey, which was the Captain's drink of   
choice. But there was something about nearly getting incinerated by a   
dragon -- and the memory of Sybil Ramkin being its first, and   
thankfully /only/ sacrificial victim -- which had caused Sam Vimes to   
bring his life sharply under review, and draw a few conclusions which   
were beginning to have an effect.   
  
The conclusion that he drank entirely too much was the first, and so   
he'd quit. It hadn't been easy, and he wasn't entirely sure he'd kicked   
the thing completely. Once or twice he found himself with a bottle in   
his hand without having recalled why or when he'd bought it. But he   
almost never actually finished one anymore.   
  
He felt as though he could use a drink, right now. He'd just thrown out   
a half-full bottle and it would be so easy to go fetch it back.   
  
He'd just finished interviews with two of the three new recruits that   
the Patrician had sent them. They weren't to go in the Day Watch, of   
course, because the city wasn't quite ready for a troll and a dwarf   
patrolling in broad daylight. And the City Watch certainly wasn't ready   
for a werewolf patrolling at /any/ time.  
  
But Vetinari'd said take them. Do it, he'd said.   
  
Never mind that this Detritus lad was thick as a brick sandwich and   
Cuddy the dwarf not much taller than one; never mind that it was daft   
to put a werewolf in the /Night/ Watch. Never mind that the werewolf   
was Delphine von Uberwald, the daughter of the most noble werewolf clan   
this side of the Ramtops. Who cares? It's only the Night Watch, after   
all.  
  
He rubbed his temples, and looked down at von Uberwald's file. In a   
moment of honesty, or possibly defiance, she'd actually written   
'Werewolf' on her application. He imagined she was probably not the   
most attractive of women, probably pointy ears and heavy eyebrows, sort   
of thing -- the nobility tended to look that way in any case. Probably   
couldn't hide it, he thought.   
  
There was a hesitant rap at the door.  
  
Well, no time for a drink now. He'd successfully thought about   
depressing things /other/ than that, for as long as it took von   
Uberwald to arrive.  
  
"Come in," he called. The lance-constable, not yet in uniform, not yet   
sworn in, came forward a few paces, and stopped, at something   
approaching attention, in front of his desk.  
  
Sam Vimes stared.  
  
Delphine von Uberwald was a tall, graceful woman -- a quite young   
woman. She had pale, ash-blond hair falling to her waist, a pleasant   
face that was just shy of being beautiful, and the air of someone with   
a tightly-coiled internal spring. She shifted nervously under his gaze.  
  
/What a lovely woman,/ Vimes heard himself think. The unusual nature of   
the thought snapped him back to reality, hard. It'd been years since   
he'd let a healthy appreciation of the female form override his duties   
as a Watch officer. Alcohol, yes, all right, but not women. You had to  
pick your vices with care.  
  
And she's a werewolf, good gods, what's wrong with you?  
  
"Lance-Constable Delphine von Uberwald, I assume?" he asked, covering   
the brief moment of confusion by searching his desk for her file, which   
proved to be right in front of him.  
  
"I'd prefer Lance-Constable Angua, sir," she said mildly, and quite   
nervously.   
  
"You would?" he asked, looking at her application. 'Von Uberwald,   
Delphine A', it read.  
  
"Yes, sir. It's just that von Uberwald's a bit of a mouthful, and...my   
family..."  
  
He looked at her over the edge of the file. "You won't get any special   
treatment in the Watch because your father's a Baron in some country   
hundreds of miles away, Lance-Constable."  
  
"No, sir, it's not that at all..." she trailed off again. "But the von   
Uberwalds are well-known and -- I mean -- "  
  
"Ah. You repudiate the family's ways and have run off to the big city   
to be an independent woman?" he asked, unsuccessfully stifling the   
little core of sarcastic cynicism which made him Vimes -- and often   
made him crave that drink.   
  
"Sir?" she asked, now thoroughly confused.  
  
"I don't like werewolves much," he said briskly, aware that he was   
being far more cruel to this woman than the other two. "The undead in   
general, to be honest. But I don't like anyone, really, so you're all   
right there. My senior officer's got to know, lord knows how we'll work   
your days off, but I'll leave it up to you whether to tell the others.   
Lance-Constable Angua."  
  
"Thank you, sir," she said, with a composedly grateful smile that made   
him regret his harshness. Nevertheless, he continued.  
  
"Don't thank me. Thank the Patrician. He's the one told us we had to   
have you. You'll get fair treatment, but don't expect anything more   
than that."  
  
"No, sir," she said.   
  
"All right. You've been through Watch procedures and Sergeant Colon'll   
be training you. Any questions?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Off you go, then."  
  
She turned and left, as gracefully as she'd entered. He watched her go.  
  
When she was gone, he put his fingers to his lips, thoughtfully. That   
woman was a werewolf? She'd looked so normal. More than that -- she'd   
looked unnaturally normal. Nondescript clothing, no unnecessary   
fidgeting, not even strong facial expressions. A woman used to   
succeeding at the attempt so many people made to /blend in/.   
  
He felt a vague stirring, deep in his copper's soul, that told him   
she'd make a good Watchman -- she had that necessary balance.  
  
Vimes used to drink to forget, which was ironic because he often   
couldn't remember what he was trying to forget, even when sober. But an   
extended period of time without the bottle had begun to reawaken those   
memories, and attached to all of them -- because they were memories of   
all the terrible things he'd seen, as a copper in Ankh-Morpork -- had   
been that old, corroded sense of duty that his first sergeant had tried   
to give him, years and years ago.   
  
By gods, she was young! Or perhaps he was simply old. Certainly she was   
older than Carrot, but that wasn't saying much; Carrot was barely more   
than a lad, though a well-grown one.  
  
The treacherous little voice in his head said that Lance-Constable   
Angua was pretty well-grown, herself.  
  
He shook himself, stifled the automatic urge to reach for the   
now-non-existent bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk, and got to   
his feet.   
  
***  
  
It was a busy time for the Night Watch. Unusually so. Before the new   
recruits, it was mainly cup of cocoa, patrol, find a place out of the   
wind, return to the watch house. It was a good formula. With only four   
people, it worked pretty well. Of course Carrot's routine was a bit   
different, since he was a young lad and hadn't picked up the cynical   
attitude of his comrades*, but at the end of the day they were all   
still alive, so good for them.  
  
But now there were the recruits to train, and Captain Vimes was getting   
a bit keen about actually stopping unlicenced crime. Shaping up to   
trade in alcohol as an obsession for real policing, was the general   
consensus of Colon and Nobby. They blamed Carrot, in part, who   
shamelessly encouraged the Captain's sobriety habit.  
  
He was even taking an interest in the training. Now they stood --   
Carrot, Vimes, and the trainees -- in front of one of the city's   
enormous gates.   
  
"This," said Corporal Carrot, "is the Hubwards Gate. To the whole city.   
Which is what we guard."  
  
"What from?" said Lance-Constable Angua.   
  
"Oh, you know. Barbarian hordes, warring tribesmen, bandit armies..."  
  
"Invading hegglers," Vimes added, in a murmur that Carrot, if he heard   
it, ignored.   
  
"Just us?" Angua asked.   
  
"Oh, no!" Carrot laughed. "That'd be silly, wouldn't it?"  
  
"Silly," Vimes echoed. "So if you see anything like that, you just ring   
your bell as hard as you like, and the rest of us will come running,"   
he said. He saw the sarcasm pass straight over Cuddy's head and   
straight through Detritus', but he wasn't speaking for their benefit.   
He watched Angua's reactions with interest.  
  
"What happens then?" she asked. Carrot looked at Vimes, who shrugged.  
  
"Haven't ever had opportunity to find out," he said. "Carrot, I think   
that's enough of a civics lesson for one day. You take Cuddy and   
Detritus, stop by the armourer on the way and place an order for some   
elephant battle armour for Detritus and...erm, a breastplate for Angua,   
right?"  
  
"Certainly, sir," Carrot said. He started off for Remitt the armourer's   
shop, the recruits following. Angua started, too, until Vimes took her   
arm.  
  
"Not you, lance-constable," he said. "You stay here with me."  
  
She gave him a questioning look.   
  
"They'll be a while. We can make it back in time for Colon to give the   
evening report, if we take a few side streets."  
  
The look didn't leave her face. "Just...me, sir?"  
  
"Well, let's say I'm holding off on the others until we can get Cuddy   
to let go of his axe and stop Detritus saluting himself unconscious,   
all right?" he said, more defensively than he meant. "Walk with me."  
  
They'd gone about ten feet before he tapped her right leg with his   
truncheon. "Not like that. This is called 'proceeding', I always have   
to teach the new ones. You lift your foot like so, swing the leg, let   
it down. You can walk for hours, like that. Got to know how to walk   
properly, in this job."  
  
"You like walking, don't you, sir?" she asked. He shrugged.  
  
"I like the outdoors. I like the city," he said.  
  
"So does Corporal Carrot."  
  
He smiled, grimly. "The city likes Corporal Carrot."  
  
"Sergeant Colon," said Angua. "He draws a lot of desk duty, right?"  
  
"Fred Colon's a good man," Vimes said, automatically.   
  
"Why has he got a pet monkey?"  
  
"That's Nobby. He's human, we think."  
  
"You don't like us much, do you, sir?" she asked. He winced, inwardly.  
  
"I told you, lance-constable. I don't like anyone much."  
  
"You like Corporal Carrot."  
  
"Everyone likes Carrot. He's good at...being liked."  
  
"He told me he's a dwarf."  
  
"Aye."  
  
"He's six foot!"  
  
"He's a tall dwarf," Vimes said humourlessly. "He's adopted."  
  
"Why -- "  
  
There was a splintering noise across the street. They turned as a   
figure sprinted out of a tavern and took off running.  
  
"Stop! Stop! Unlicensed thief!"  
  
Vimes was about three seconds into a dead run when he realized he was   
doing the wrong thing. Here'n'Now -- it was undoubtedly Here'n'Now, he   
could /see/ it was Here'n'Now -- would run straight home; he could have   
gone up Mormius Street into Borborygmic Lane, and down Whilom Alley to   
Zephire street, and made it with time to spare.  
  
Too late now. The terrier instinct was full-on, and it was only when he   
finally skidded past Here'n'Now and punched him in the head that he   
realized Angua was right behind him.  
  
Silver dollars rolled across the cobbles. Angua nearly ran into him.  
  
"Bigods," Vimes panted, hauling Here'n'Now up by the scruff of his   
neck. "You've got a set of legs on you."  
  
She blinked, and he realized how incredibly terrible that sounded. For   
the first time in his life, he fully experienced the term 'lecherous';   
he had never felt so much like a lecherous man. He reddened.  
  
"You run well," he added. "Also important in this job. Running."  
  
She smiled.   
  
***  
  
They arrived back at the Watch House just as Colon was beginning the   
evening report. Vimes took the unlucky Here'n'Now down to the cells   
while Angua seated herself between Carrot and Detritus. She looked like   
a whippet between two rottweilers.   
  
"What's all this about, then?" Nobby asked. "Us sittin' down here and   
you standin' up there?"  
  
"We got to do it proper, now there's more of us," Colon replied. Vimes   
came up from the cells, and leaned in the doorway. "Right! Ahem. OK. We   
welcome to the guard today Lance-Constable Detritus -– don't salute! --   
and Lance-Constable Cuddy, also Lance-Constable Angua. Right, that's   
out of the way. Now, says here -— "  
  
"Sergeant?"  
  
"Yes, Carrot?"  
  
"Aren't you forgetting something, sergeant?" said Carrot. "They've got   
to take the oath, sarge. It's the law."  
  
Colon shared a look with Vimes.  
  
"He's right, Fred," Vimes said. "Haven't done that in years, but I   
recall it. Think I even took it, which not everyone did. Did you take   
the oath when you joined, Carrot?'  
  
"Oh, yes, Captain. Only no-one asked me, so I gave it to myself, quiet   
like."  
  
"Care to give it to the recruits, then?"  
  
Carrot stood up and removed his helmet. He smoothed down his hair. Then   
he raised his right hand.  
  
"Raise your right hands, too," he said. "Repeat after me..." He closed   
his eyes and his lips moved for a moment, as though he was reading   
something off the inside of his skull.  
  
"I comma square bracket recruit's name square bracket comma..." He   
nodded at them. "You say it."  
  
They chorused a reply. Vimes turned a treacherous laugh into a cough.   
Angua was determinedly looking at a point six inches to the left and   
two feet above Carrot's ear.  
  
"...do solemnly swear by square bracket recruit's deity of choice   
square bracket to uphold the Laws and Ordinances of the city of   
Ankh-Morpork, serve the public truft comma and defend the fubjects of   
His ftroke Her bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket   
Majefty bracket name of reigning monarch bracket..."  
  
"Never did like that part," Vimes said quietly. Angua tried to   
concentrate on nothing but Carrot's voice, providing them with the next   
series of words. On top of everything else, Detritus' patient monotone   
was already several dozen words behind everyone else.  
  
"...without fear comma favour comma or thought of perfonal fafety   
semi-colon to purfue evildoers and protect the innocent comma laying   
down my life if necefsary in the caufe of said duty comma so help me   
bracket aforefaid deity bracket full stop Gods Save the King stroke   
Queen bracket delete whichever is inappropriate bracket full stop."  
  
Angua fell silent. She looked at Carrot first; there were tears running   
down his cheeks. Then she looked at Vimes. He, too, seemed to be   
fighting tears; he'd been laughing silently for about a minute.  
  
"—pro-tect the in-no-cent com-ma—"  
  
"In your own time, Lance-Constable Detritus," Vimes said briskly, when  
he'd managed some modicum of control. "And now, Carrot, I'm sure there's   
one more thing to do..."  
  
"The King's Shilling! Yes sir!"  
  
Vimes took three small dollar coins out of his pocket, and tossed one   
to each of the recruits. Cuddy and Angua caught theirs; Detritus'   
bounced off his chest, and ricocheted into Nobby's helmet. Vimes sighed   
the sigh of a man who knows his lot in life, but wonders how he drew   
it.   
  
"This is called the King's Shilling. You take it when you join," he   
said. "Don't know why. Suppose you've got to give it back if you quit,   
or some daft nonsense like that. All right, Fred, I think you can start   
now."  
  
Colon cleared his throat, and began the evening's announcements. Vimes   
let them wash over him, while he thought about other matters. He heard   
Colon say something about parades, and then he heard him call Angua   
'miss', and heard her correct him.  
  
"Not miss," she said. Colon's brows drew together.  
  
"Why not?" he asked.  
  
"Angua is a man of the Watch. She doesn't have any sex while she's on   
duty," Carrot said.   
  
Vimes' face was as empty as a man about to win large sums at Cripple   
Mr. Onion.  
  
***  
  
The rest of the Watch had gone out to Short Street, to see if they   
couldn't sort out what Vimes referred to in his head as the Parade of   
Armageddon. He'd have gone, too, but Carrot had taken him aside and   
asked him not to. Carrot said he scared the recruits. Vimes thought   
that fear was quite the proper emotion for a recruit to have. Fear made   
people faster on the uptake. It made them notice things.   
  
But someone had to watch the Yard, and he wanted some time to think   
things over. Mostly, what on the Disc he was going to do with the new   
recruits.   
  
There was a certain...fear-inducing element to Detritus. If you could   
get his thoughts off slow-blink and teach him a few things about   
coppering, he'd be a force to reckon with. Cuddy looked the sort to   
survive in the Watch by sheer indestructibility. He was the kind of   
ma -- the kind of dwarf who didn't go looking for trouble, and didn't   
waste any time ending it when trouble found him.   
  
Angua had the makings of a really good copper. She could go Day Watch,   
if she wanted. If they'd let a werewolf in the Day Watch. Which they   
wouldn't. He didn't even want her in the Night Watch. He didn't /like/   
werewolves.   
  
But he did like Angua. She was quick to learn, she did as she was told,   
and she asked the right questions.   
  
He was just settling into his chair, behind his desk, when the world   
exploded.   
  
Right, that did it! The alchemists had blown up their Guild House for   
the last time, if Vimes had anything to do with it...  
  
But when he peered over the window sill he saw, across the river, the   
column of dust rising over the Assassins' Guild.  
  
***  
  
The rest of the Watch came trotting along Filigree Street as Vimes   
reached the Guild entrance. A couple of black-clad Assassins barred his   
way, in a polite manner which nevertheless indicated that impoliteness   
was a future option. There were sounds of hurrying feet behind the   
gates.  
  
"You see this badge? You see it?" Vimes demanded. "Let us in, in the   
name of the law!"  
  
The Assassin smiled nervously at him. "The law is that Guild law   
prevails inside Guild walls," he said.  
  
Vimes glared at him. Angua stepped forward.  
  
"Then bring us the Master of Assassins," she said.   
  
"Who're you?"  
  
"Lance-Constable Angua, City Watch," she said, showing him her badge.   
Her other hand rested calmly on her belt, several inches from her   
sword.  
  
"Hah! Your uniform doesn't scare me," the Assassin said. "Not yours   
neither," he added, to Vimes.  
  
Vimes looked down at his battered breastplate and worn mail.  
  
"You're right," he said. "This is not a scary uniform. I'm sorry.   
Forward, Corporal Carrot and Lance-Constable Detritus."  
  
The Assassin was suddenly aware of the sunlight being blocked out.  
  
"Now these, I think you'll agree," said Vimes, from somewhere behind   
the eclipse, "are scary uniforms."  
  
The Assassin dashed away.   
  
"Sir," Angua said, as they crunched into the courtyard. "I think   
there's something you ought to -- "  
  
"Is this the time, Lance-constable?" he snapped. There was a pause.  
  
"Yes, sir, it really is," she said. She reached into a pocket and   
handed him a letter. He read it, glanced at her, smiled a terrible   
smile, and looked up the stairs, at the Master of Assassins,   
descending to meet them.   
  
Something smelled wrong. You didn't have to be supernatural to know   
that. But this little sheet of paper should make it all better...  
  
"What is the meaning of this?" Dr. Cruces demanded, when he reached the   
small band of Watchmen.   
  
"Ah, Dr. Cruces," Vimes said. "Captain Vimes, Night Watch. This is   
Sergeant Colon, Corporals Nobbs and Ironfoundersson, and that's   
lance-constable Cuddy. The big standing stone is lance-constable   
Detritus, and this, Dr. Cruces, is lance-constable Angua."  
  
"No-one sent for you!" Cruces snapped. "What gives you the right to be   
here, mister policeman? Walking around as if the Watch owned the   
place?"  
  
Vimes paused, his heart singing. He savoured the moment. He'd like to   
take this moment and press it carefully in a big book, so that when he   
was old he could take it out occasionally and remember it. He decided   
that he could forgive Angua being a werewolf, for this moment.  
  
He handed Cruces the letter.  
  
"Well, if you would like the most fundamental reason," he said, "it is   
because I rather think we do."  
  
Dr. Cruces read the letter. He looked at Vimes. He read it again, and   
looked at Angua. She gave him a, well, let's face it, a wolfish grin.  
  
"I see," he said, handing her the letter. "Very well."  
  
Vimes gave Angua a nod, and turned to face the Master of Assassins.   
"What happened here?"  
  
Dr. Cruces hesitated.  
  
"Fireworks," he said.  
  
That was only the beginning of the trouble.  
  
***  
  
* Who would never have referred to themselves as that. Comrades was the   
kind of phrase only Carrot could use without sounding like an idiot. 


	2. Chapter 2

Transformations 2 / 3  
  
They had talked out the inspection of the Assassins' guild, and   
re-talked it, and theorized and questioned and wondered until Vimes had   
said they might as well leave it for now, and get out on patrol. He   
sent Detritus out with Carrot, on the grounds that nobody had more   
patience for people than the corporal. Cuddy was out with Colon, and   
Nobby was manning the desk, which meant that anything worth keeping had   
been locked up before they set out.  
  
He had taken Angua out again. He hated himself for doing it, but he did   
it anyway.  
  
"You didn't list an address on your application," Vimes said quietly,   
as they rounded Body street and headed up King's Way. "Now I think I   
know why."  
  
"I just wanted a normal job," she answered.  
  
"But you don't /need/ a job. Good gods, you're worth millions. You   
could afford to give /me/ a job."  
  
Angua shrugged. "I didn't want to think that way," she said. "I just   
wanted to have a normal life in the big city. I didn't want to be the   
daughter of the Baron, or the Lady Angua, or any of it."  
  
"I didn't know Lady Sybil was a werewolf," he said musingly.  
  
"She wasn't. She and my mother were at school together. Lady Sybil was   
my godmother. She didn't have much family, and nobody she liked well   
enough to leave the estate to. Except me. It's all perfectly legal."  
  
"I'm sure."  
  
"It did help today, didn't it?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose so."  
  
"You knew Lady Sybil?"  
  
He shrugged. "Passingly. I...liked her. She was a good woman. She   
didn't deserve to die like that. Nobody does." He paused. "Except the   
person who caused it."  
  
"I'm sorry. She always sent me nice Hogswatch cards."  
  
"She seemed the type."  
  
"And now you've got another reason to hate me."  
  
He looked at her, sharply. "I don't hate you, lance-constable. I don't   
know you well enough to hate you."  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"I told you. You'll get a fair share of respect in the Watch. No more,   
no less."  
  
"And a transfer out of the Night Watch as soon as you can arrange it,   
right?" she asked, bitterly. "I know how it goes."  
  
"Oh, you do?"  
  
"Yes, I do! I hated being the Baron's daughter so I came to the plains   
and I tried working in Pseudopolis and Quirm and Sto Lat, and it always   
ends the same. I thought Ankh-Morpork might be different."  
  
"Lance-constable, I'm going to give you another valuable lesson in   
coppering, if you're willing to pay attention to someone beside   
yourself for a moment," Vimes said sharply. Angua subsided, sullenly.   
"A good copper doesn't let on what he's thinking. He keeps quiet until   
he knows what's going on. He doesn't complain, and he doesn't presume   
to know his commanding officer's thoughts."  
  
They proceeded on in silence.  
  
"Yes, sir," Angua said finally.  
  
"You come to Ankh-Morpork to get a job, or because of this   
inheritance?" he asked, as they passed the Ramkin mansion. It stood   
empty, now; Angua stopped and looked at it, sourly.  
  
"Both, sir."  
  
"Why the Watch?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Vimes grunted. "Would you like the short list?"  
  
"It's not easy, getting a job in Ankh-Morpork, not when you're a woman.   
Or a werewolf," she added.  
  
"There's a reason for that."  
  
"I'm a vegetarian, you know."  
  
Vimes threw back his head and laughed. "A vegetarian! You? That's   
pretty good, lance-constable."  
  
"I'm glad you find it /funny/, sir."  
  
"Come on, now. When's the last time you met a vegetarian wolf?"  
  
"I'm not a wolf. Any more than I'm a human."  
  
He turned to face her. "What does that mean?" he asked.  
  
"I don't expect you to understand. I'm a /werewolf/. I'm not a wolf and   
I'm not a human and neither race likes us much. So if you'll give me my   
orders and stop poking around in my personal life, I'd be grateful."   
She paused. "With all due respect, sir."  
  
He regarded her for a moment, then nodded.  
  
"Fair enough, Angua."  
  
They passed the Assassins' guild, where some of the more junior members   
were sweeping up the debris from the explosion.  
  
"Assassins in daylight," snarled Vimes. "I'm amazed they don't turn to   
dust. Assassins and licensed thieves and bloody vampires! You know,   
this was a great old city once."  
  
"I've read about that," Angua said. "When we had kings -- "  
  
"Kings? Kings? Hell, no! A monarch's an absolute ruler, right? The head   
honcho —- "  
  
"Unless he's a queen," said Angua. Vimes nodded.   
  
"The supreme ruler, okay. But that's not right, see? One man with the   
power of life and death."  
  
"The Patrician's a supreme ruler," Angua pointed out.   
  
"But he doesn't wear a crown or sit on a throne and he doesn't tell you   
it's right that he should rule," said Vimes. "I hate the bastard. But   
he's honest. Honest like a corkscrew."  
  
"Even so, a good man as king —- "  
  
"Yes? And then what? Royalty pollutes people's minds! We probably had   
good kings, once! But kings breed other kings! And blood tells, and you   
end up with a bunch of arrogant, murdering bastards! Chopping off   
queens' heads and fighting their cousins every five minutes! And we had   
centuries of that! And then one day a man said 'No more kings!' and we   
rose up and we fought the bloody nobles and we dragged the king off his   
throne and we dragged him into Sator Square and we chopped his bloody   
head off! Job well done!"  
  
Angua was impressed. This was the sort of rhetoric that got your throat   
ripped out back home. Here, barely anyone was even paying attention. It   
was true what they said; nobody cared about you in Ankh-Morpork enough   
to kill you.  
  
"Who was he?" she asked.  
  
"Who?"  
  
"The man who said 'No more kings'."  
  
Vimes shoved his hands in his pockets, and his face went blank. "He was   
Commander of the City Guard in those days," he mumbled. "He's not in   
the history books much. But he wielded the axe, you know. No-one else'd   
do it. It was a king's neck, after all. Even after they'd seen   
the...private rooms, and cleaned up the...bits. Even then. No-one'd   
clean up the world. But he took the axe and cursed them all and did   
it."  
  
"What was his name?"  
  
Vimes mumbled something she couldn't hear. She waited patiently.  
  
"Suffer-Not-Injustice Vimes," he said, not much louder. She could smell   
the shame on him.  
  
"I see," she said. "What about the rest of the royal family?"  
  
"Oh, there was a surviving son, I think. And a few mad relatives. They   
were banished. That's supposed to be a terrible fate, for royalty. I   
can't see it myself. I like the city, but if it was a choice between   
banishment and having my head chopped off, just help me down with this   
suitcase. No, we're well rid of kings."  
  
"We haven't got kings in Uberwald," she said. "Just the big ruling   
families. Same thing. I guess the Commander had it right."  
  
"He didn't rule long. Six months, I think. He told the people they were   
free, and they got frightened, and asked for the old tyranny back. And   
you got the Patricians."  
  
"Lord Vetinari seems all right."  
  
"Yeah, but you should've seen the ones before him. Mad Lord Snapcase,   
now there was a mistake."  
  
They walked on, in silence, but it had changed from sullen to   
respectful.  
  
"Are you staying up the Ramkin place, then?" Vimes finally asked.  
  
"Oh, no. I've got rooms with Mrs. Cake."  
  
"Mrs. Cake? But she -- " he paused. "Aha. Ahaha. I see."  
  
***  
  
There were busy days to follow. There were deaths, and the gonne-card,   
exploding dragons, and Detritus and Cuddy getting locked in a freezer.   
There were reports to write, bodies to examine. From the Watch's point   
of view, things happened, seemingly without order and with disturbing   
swiftness. You take a dwarf, a clown, an explosion, and a couple of   
lead pellets, and see what you come up with, without a handy plotline   
that explains things as it goes along.  
  
Angua remembered, vividly, her first case with the Watch. But what she   
remembered most, up until the point that Vimes drew the sword, was the   
rivalry between Carrot and the Captain.  
  
It was never anything that was put into words. It wasn't even anything   
you could see in their actions. But you could smell it, and you could   
feel it.   
  
Carrot was the logical choice, of /course/ Carrot was the man she ought   
to walk the city with, and talk with, and admire. He was young -- even   
younger than she was -- and he was handsome, and everyone liked Carrot.  
  
Carrot was a /bore/.  
  
Sam Vimes, on the other hand, was fifteen years older than her, and   
didn't shave often enough, and hated werewolves. Anger was his base   
state of being. The only thing he really seemed to like was running.   
But he had more in his head than the City Laws, and he lived in the   
world of Ankh-Morpork, instead of drawing Ankh-Morpork temporarily   
into his own little world, as Carrot did.  
  
Angua quite liked Vimes. This was worrying. For once she'd found a job   
where her superior wasn't outwardly trying to discover if she was a   
natural blond, and she was spending her time wondering how much she   
owed the man who'd tailored his britches.   
  
At first she'd thought the rivalry was purely one-sided, that Carrot   
was only jealous because, up until the new recruits, he'd been Vimes'   
favorite, the golden son, the one Vimes took out into the city to   
teach. Then she and the others came along, and Vimes chose her over   
Carrot.  
  
But Carrot showed up on her doorstep, on her day off, and wanted to   
take her to see the city, and she realized that Carrot quite fancied   
her. She could not, in her entire life, recall a situation like this.   
Most of the men in Uberwald tended to cower or run away when she was   
around. The Baron had made it Very Clear that anyone attempting to   
speak to his daughter without his direct permission would find himself   
in a world of toothy pain.   
  
She walked with Carrot, and let him show her the city, but when they   
got back to the Watch house, Captain Vimes was hurt, and she saw the   
look in Carrot's eyes as she bandaged his ear. And then the girl at the   
Beggar's guild, and she saw the look in /Vimes'/ eyes when Carrot took   
over the investigation smoothly.  
  
Neither of those were anything, however, compared to the mess at the   
Watch House after Lord Vetinari asked Vimes to turn in his sword   
and badge.  
  
They'd found him in the Bucket. He was obviously not sober. There was   
something clenched in his hand so hard that his knuckles were white,   
and there was an empty bottle in his pocket. Neither of them -- not   
Carrot, not Angua -- felt anything at that moment, except sympathy and   
fear, the sort of fear you get when you discover your parents aren't   
all-knowing.  
  
Carrot carried him up to his room, and sent Nobby out for Klatchian   
coffee. Angua, who'd never been in her Captain's bedroom, was stunned.   
She had never seen such an unlived-in room.  
  
"What did you expect?" Carrot asked.  
  
"I don't know. Anything. Something. Not /nothing/. I mean, at least a   
rug," said Angua. "A picture on the wall. Something."  
  
"Captain Vimes isn't really an indoors kind of person."  
  
"I hate to see him like this," Angua murmured.  
  
"He only drinks when he gets depressed," said Carrot.  
  
"Why does he get depressed?"  
  
"Sometimes it's because he hasn't had a drink."  
  
She squinted in the darkness. "He hasn't even got candles in here. Or   
an ornament or anything."  
  
"There's a sheet of cardboard under the bed," Carrot volunteered. "I   
remember I was with him in Filigree Street when he found it. He said   
"There's a month's soles in this, if I'm any judge". He was very   
pleased about that."  
  
"He can't even afford boots? You can buy boots, and you get less than   
him. And you send money home."  
  
"Maybe he drinks it."  
  
"But everyone /knows/ he's off it now."  
  
"Obviously not," Carrot said. Angua turned on him.  
  
"It's not easy, you know! It's not as though he's got anyone but us!"   
she said sharply. She lifted the lid of his trunk. "Look. Everything he   
owns in the world. Old boots and stuff. And some paper." She waved the   
crude notebook in his face.   
  
"That belongs to Captain -- "  
  
She opened the book and read a few lines, expecting it to be notes   
about Watch business.   
  
Her mouth dropped open. Her heart sank.  
  
"Will you look at this? No wonder he never has any money!"  
  
"What d'you mean?"  
  
"He spends it all on women!"  
  
Carrot looked over her shoulder. On the bed, Vimes snorted. Angua felt   
as though her world was falling around her. She didn't expect this. He   
must look at every woman the way she sometimes caught him looking at   
her. Sam Vimes, a wolf! Who'd have thought it?  
  
There, on the page, in Vimes' curly handwriting, were the words:  
  
Mrs Gafkin, Mincing St: $5  
Mrs Scurrick, Treacle St: $4  
Mrs Maroon, Wixon's Alley: $4  
Annabel Curry, Lobfneaks: $2  
  
"Annabel Curry couldn't have been much good, for only two dollars,"   
said Angua bitterly.  
  
She was aware of a sudden drop in temperature.  
  
"I shouldn't think so," said Carrot, slowly. "She's only nine years   
old."  
  
"/What/?"  
  
Colon appeared in the doorway, carrying a small ceramic cup carefully.  
  
"Sergeant," said Carrot, "Lance-Constable Angua wants to know about Mrs   
Gaskin."  
  
"Old Leggy Gaskin's widow? She lives in Mincing Street."  
  
"And Mrs Scurrick?"  
  
"In Treacle Street? Takes in laundry now." Sergeant Colon looked from   
one to the other, trying to get a handle on the situation.  
  
"Mrs Maroon?"  
  
"That's Sergeant Maroon's widow, she sells coal in -- "  
  
"How about Annabel Curry?"  
  
"She still goes to the Spiteful Sisters of Seven-Handed Sek Charity   
School, doesn't she?" Colon smiled nervously at Angua, still not sure   
of what was happening.   
  
"But...fourteen dollars...that's nearly half his pay!"  
  
"No pension for widows and orphans," Carrot said quietly. He picked up   
Vimes' limp arm and tried to prise his fist open, but even though Vimes   
was out cold the fingers were locked. "You just drink this, captain,"   
he said, holding the cup to Vimes' lips, "and everything will look a   
lot...clearer..."  
  
Angua could hear them talking in the background, could hear Vimes   
scream as the coffee sent him too far the other way, but she didn't   
register any of it. It wasn't until his badge tumbled out of his   
bleeding hand, and onto the floor, that she looked up again.  
  
"I'll get some bandages," she said calmly.  
  
***  
  
The others had gone downstairs to deal with Quirke; Angua could hear   
raised voices as they argued. She took the roll of white cotton   
bandaging, and tore off a short strip, soaking it in water from the   
basin and washing his hand. He didn't even flinch, and she wondered if   
the coffee was wearing off.   
  
"I don't imagine it'll be forever," she said. "It's just until this   
mess with the Guilds blows over."  
  
No reply. She glanced up at his face, and saw his dark eyes watching   
her, but not in the way a person's eyes did; there was a wall, blocking   
off thought, and she decided it was rather like the look of a dog,   
watching a stranger. She picked up his other hand, opened it, and set   
the bloody bandage in it. The least he could do, if he wasn't going to   
talk, was help her keep the mess to a minimum.  
  
"Anyway, the Yard's been too quiet. Least this way, when the Patrician   
re-opens the Night Watch, we'll probably get more people," she said, as   
she picked up his hand and rubbed some sort of balm into the cuts with   
her thumb. She set the bottle next to the rag in his other hand, and   
was pleased to see his fingers rise to grip it.   
  
"And it's not as though he fired you. Just a...an administrative   
leave," she said brightly, wrapping his hand in the thin white strips.   
She noticed, for the first time, that it was the same cotton cloth as   
Watchmen's uniform shirts were.  
  
She moved to stand, pushing the broken-seated chair back to where it   
was, but he stopped her. He held the bandaged hand in front of her   
eyes, and extended his forefinger. His hand turned, and the tip of his   
thumb stroked her cheek.   
  
She closed her eyes when he kissed her. He was surprisingly good at it.  
  
"Thank you," he said quietly, as the bandaged hand pushed her   
backwards, gently. "Those are very good lies, Angua. Hand me my badge,   
please."  
  
She picked up the piece of copper, wiping it off with her hand, and   
gave it to him, without meeting his eyes.   
  
"You've known," he said slowly, "for some time. I know. I'm not as   
stupid as all that. It won't work. You need a young man, like Carrot."  
  
"It's messy," said Angua.   
  
"Yes."  
  
"And now is not the time."  
  
"No."  
  
She looked at him. "Is that all you're going to say? Yes and no?"  
  
"There's nothing more to say right now," he said, studying his badge.   
"We still have a job to do."  
  
***  
  
There were riots in the streets. Coalface the troll had been arrested   
for the murder of the dwarf Hammerhock. A body had been found in the   
cavernous ruins below the city.   
  
And then, for the love of the gods, Carrot formed a militia.  
  
Vimes watched it all, with that same walled-in expression. He gave   
orders, and so did Carrot, and in-between times he simply watched,   
and waited -- he wasn't even sure what for.   
  
Even when the militia began to swell and Carrot field-promoted   
Detritus, /Detritus/, he promoted /Detritus/, Vimes didn't say   
anything.   
  
Even when the night fell and it was his time, the time the Night Watch   
was supposed to be on the streets.   
  
"I think we've finally got control for the night," Carrot said, as   
they reached the Yard. Angua had dropped back, to check down a   
side-alley, and was just catching up when she looked to the sky, and   
swore.  
  
/How/ could she forget?  
  
The rest of the Watch turned when they heard the curse, but by the time   
their eyes adjusted to the sight, all that was left of Angua was a   
large, golden wolf, and a pile of armour.  
  
The sword was in his hands before Vimes even thought about it. It was   
instinct. He didn't even know who he'd pulled it from. Carrot,   
probably.  
  
Angua growled, backing away, the hackles on her neck standing up. Vimes   
advanced, cautiously.  
  
She stopped, and stared at him, and he felt the walls dropping.  
  
"Oh /bugger/," he said, as she vanished into the night.  
  
***  
  
The irony of it all was, that if they'd had a werewolf about, they   
could have tracked her.  
  
***  
  
It was morning. Late morning. What else was there to do? He'd   
walked the streets for hours. He thought he knew the city well   
enough to find her, and he was wrong. It wasn't as though he   
would have slept; when he finally did get back to the Yard,   
all he did was doze, standing up in a corner, while the others  
talked about the next move, and tried to puzzle it out.   
  
He couldn't find a werewolf in a city he'd lived in all his   
life. So not only was he a terrible person and a speciesist   
idiot, he was a /bad copper/.  
  
Sam Vimes had not had a good night. He was angry, mainly at himself.  
And he wanted to spread it around.  
  
"All right lads, we're not doing any good here," he said, finally.  
"Might as well do our jobs."  
  
"We don't go on shift for hours yet," Colon pointed out.  
  
"We don't go on shift at all anymore," Nobby added. "Been stood up."  
  
"Stood down, Nobby," Carrot corrected.  
  
"Dat too," Detritus rumbled.   
  
"Shut up!" Vimes said, sharply. "So we're all a bunch of useless  
uniforms? If you're going to hang about the Watch House instead of  
going home, you might as well get out there and at least pretend  
to be real coppers. I'm going to," he added, clenching his teeth.  
  
He didn't look back to see if anyone had followed him. If they   
hadn't, he didn't want to know it.   
  
All he'd had to do was take in three new recruits and teach them   
how to be coppers and keep them from killing themselves or anyone  
else. He'd managed to captain the Night Watch for years without   
ever being entirely sober for any measurable length of time.   
Without the bottle, he ought to be able to do this job in his   
sleep (and sometimes, from the way he'd handled things, suspected   
he had).   
  
And now, because of the stupid gonne and his own stupid reaction  
to the more furry side of Angua's personality, she was gone, and  
the Watch was gone, and all he had left was the patrol, even if   
it wasn't an authorized one, even if it was his last.   
  
Some nob was getting married up at the University. Coaches were  
rattling through Sator Square, and, as Vetinari's open carriage  
rumbled past, he saluted it, cynically.   
  
Vetinari inclined his head in sober reply, which was why the   
first lead pellet skimmed the back of his head before slamming  
into the carriage, instead of hitting him square between the  
eyes.  
  
Vimes took off at a dead run for the Patrician, which was why the  
second lead pellet went through Vimes.  
  
***  
  
It was a little dog, a mongrel that had about half the hair a   
dog ought to have, and twice the smell. Three times the smell.  
  
Angua had seen him around, chased rats with him a couple of   
times. Gaspode, the world's only talking dog. A terrible-  
looking creature who nevertheless had managed to disband the   
Dogs' Guild with two well-placed words. Dogs were obedient   
animals, after all.  
  
She rather liked Gaspode; he reminded her of the Watch. Heroic,  
but not quite up to the task of being heroes. Scruffy and not  
very well loved. Nearly homeless. Animals of the city.  
  
"'Ullo, Angua," he said, nervously. She growled. She'd found a   
nice, quiet alley, where she was nearly certain Sam Vimes   
wouldn't know to look, and she was contemplating never   
coming out. She was quite seriously contemplating never going  
back to human. It was too hard. Far too hard.   
  
Gaspode sat down. His tail thumped uncertainly.  
  
"Knew I'd find you sooner or later," he said. "The old nose,   
eh? Finest instrument known to dog."  
  
There was another growl. Gaspode whimpered a bit.  
  
"The thing is," he said, "the thing is...the actual thing is,   
see..."  
  
"Did he send you?" she asked. Gaspode cringed.  
  
"Not as such. Not as such. But like...the Watch, they're like  
dogs, ain't they? I like the Watch. Good lads. Give him a candy,  
wouldn't he like some curry. I can see you...don't want to talk   
right now. But that's the whole mess about being a dog, see?" he   
said. "There's the voice sayin': Bad Dog. And it don't come from   
anywhere but inside, right from inside the bones, 'cos humans   
made dogs. I knows this. I wish I didn't, but there it is. That's   
the Power, knowin'. I've read books, I have. Well, chewed books.'  
  
The alley was silent.  
  
'And you're a wolf and human at the same time, right? Tricky, that.   
Makes you kind of like a dog. 'Cos that's what a dog is, really. Half   
a wolf and half a human. We've even got names. Hah! So our bodies   
tell us one thing, our heads tell us another. It's a dog's life,   
being a dog. And I bet you can't run away from him. Not really. He's   
your master. E's your Captain, he is. He wants you to come back. The   
thing is, if he finds you, that's it. He'll speak, and you'll have to   
obey. But if you goes back of your own accord, then it's your decision.   
You'd be happier as a human -- "  
  
Angua howled. "He drew his sword! And there's always someone who's   
going to draw a sword! I can't go back. I —- "  
  
She froze. Her ears twitched.  
  
"What? What?"  
  
"He's been hurt!"  
  
***  
  
Cuddy and Detritus had been following the Captain, on Carrot's   
orders, and Cuddy had the sense to ring his bell, while Detritus  
charged the coach and tried to return fire with the siege   
crossbow. It took a chunk out of the Tower of Art, and didn't do  
much else.   
  
The bell was too much attraction for the shooter to ignore.  
Cuddy crumped to the ground, just as Detritus swooped down to   
carry him along to the relative safety of the overturned carriage.  
  
Vimes crouched behind the makeshift cover, aware that his neck was   
bleeding and his shoulder burned with a firey sort of chill.   
Detritus' big craggy fingers clamped down on him.  
  
"Jus' stoppin der blood flow, sir," Detritus rumbled. "Corp'ral  
Carrot showed me how."  
  
"Don't break the bones," Vimes said. "Morning, Lordship," he   
added, to Vetinari. The Patrician stared at him.  
  
"Two -- " a zing, and the carriage splintered. " -- one more," he   
said. "Detritus, you take his Lordship and Cuddy -- oh. No."  
  
Detritus was looking down at the still body of his friend. A   
sixth pellet ricocheted off the wheel of the carriage.  
  
Vimes took off at a dead run. He reached the tower just in time to see   
a black-clad figure making a run for it. The terrier in Vimes sat up   
and growled. Then something deeper and darker also began to take   
notice.  
  
Red rose in front of his eyes as he ran. It poured down his shirt,   
too, underneath the chain mail. He was going to want a long bath and   
a lie down when this was all over.   
  
But right now, he had a killer to catch.  
  
The man knew the streets, he could see that, but so did he. And, he   
noticed, so did Carrot, who was running parallel to both of them,   
occasionally visible when he passed an alleyway. The whole damn Night  
Watch must have followed him.  
  
The man turned down a dim street, and Vimes grinned cruelly. Got you,  
my old chum, that's a dead end --   
  
A shower of pellets burst out of the alley, and Vimes slid to a stop,  
rolling underneath them. He heard cursing as the man tried to hammer   
another six rounds into the gonne. He leapt into the alley, and hit the   
wall just as the gonne fired.   
  
He had just enough time to register that it was Cruces, /Cruces/ who   
was wielding the gonne, before he found himself staring down the   
barrel.  
  
"Don't move, Vimes," Cruces growled. "It's not you I'm after."  
  
Vimes found it not at all difficult to obey. He was barely standing,  
in any case.   
  
There was a gap in the wall. Carrot, if he had the sense he was born  
with, could reach through and --   
  
Cruces saw Vimes' eyes stray to the gap, and he grinned as his finger  
tightened --   
  
And a blur of golden fur came out of nowhere, leaping in front of the  
Assassin and taking four square shots to the chest.  
  
Cruces ran. Vimes roared.  
  
"SON OF A BITCH!" he shouted, pumping after the Assassin. Cruces   
tripped, and the gonne fell away. Vimes dove for it, and beat him to  
the weapon.  
  
He stood.  
  
Cruces drew a knife.  
  
Sam Vimes fired.  
  
And then he collapsed.  
  
*** 


	3. Chapter 3

Transformations 3 / 3  
  
Anyone who hadn't known the Watch, the Night Watch in particular,   
would have been surprised at the way things were dealt with. By the   
time Carrot reached them, Vimes had recovered; he had just enough   
energy left to stare in horror at Cruces for a while, before hurling   
the gonne against the wall, wrecking it completely. He stood and   
made his way, unsteadily, back to the corpse.  
  
Angua's corpse.  
  
Carrot stood there, helmet off, turning it in his hands.  
  
"She saved me," Vimes said hoarsely. "Jumped right in front of it.   
Just like that."  
  
"Cuddy's dead too, sir," said Carrot.  
  
"Damn it all." Vimes tried to wipe the grime and sweat from his   
forehead, but his arm wouldn't move properly. Blood caked his uniform.  
"/Damn/ it."  
  
"The Patrician's all right, though. Detritus has him up at the   
University. Cuddy's there too."  
  
Vimes stood in the filthy alleyway, over the body of a woman he'd   
thought he might even be able to love, and put his face in his hands.  
He didn't know how much longer he could stay upright.  
  
"Come on, Carrot," he said, after a while. "Let's take her home."  
  
They carried her back to the Yard, or rather, Vimes did, ignoring the  
pain in his shoulder; Carrot, conceding the field, went ahead to clear   
off a table and get some bandages ready, since his Captain was barely   
coming in under his own power.   
  
He fetched a basin of water as Vimes, wincing, laid Angua on the clean  
white sheet over the table, and cleaned her fur as best he could, using   
damp rags of bandage. Only then was Carrot allowed to see to his   
Captain's wounds.  
  
And then he left them alone.  
  
Vimes sat for a few minutes, his head cocked to one side. He put out   
his bandaged hand, almost touched her eyelids to close them, then   
stopped himself. He turned, and let himself out into the front office.  
  
"I'm going upstairs," he said, his voice dull and flat. "Carrot,   
you...if there's anything left to handle, you handle it."  
  
"Yes, sir," Carrot said carefully.  
  
"There's a half a bottle of Bearhugger's in my office under the loose  
floor-board. Throw it out, would you?"  
  
"Yes sir."  
  
Vimes, already shirtless, scratched at his bandage as he undid his   
bootlaces and shucked them in a corner of his bedroom. He didn't have   
the energy for anything more, and rolled himself up in his blanket,  
wincing at the pain. He could at least pretend that he would sleep,   
soon.   
  
After a while, there was the sound of the door opening, and someone   
crossing the floor. A cool hand touched his bare, bandaged shoulder.  
  
"It's very difficult to kill a werewolf," Angua's voice said. He didn't   
dare turn; he was probably just dreaming. "We don't drown, or bleed   
much, and there aren't many poisons that'll do the trick. Fire will.   
And silver. But steel knives won't. Iron pikes won't. And lead pellets   
certainly won't."  
  
He did turn, then, pushing himself up on one elbow to look at her. She   
smiled. She was wrapped in the sheet he'd laid her on. It preserved   
decency, and not much more.  
  
"You've got scars," she said, letting her hand fall away.   
  
"Yes," he managed.  
  
"Me too. You fight dirty?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So do I. You ever lose?"  
  
"No."  
  
"That all you're going to say? Yes and no?"  
  
He reached out, half-wondering if his hand wouldn't go right through   
her. It didn't.  
  
"Yes," he said, pulling her down.  
  
The bedsprings went /glink/.  
  
And quite soon, for Samuel Vimes and Angua von Uberwald, the Disc   
moved.   
  
And continued to move. Bread and newspapers be damned.  
  
***  
  
It was some time later; the sun was almost up in the sky. It was a new   
day. The Patrician was still alive, and so, miraculously, were the   
Night Watch. Carrot was, he was sure, Handling Things.  
  
Dr. Cruces was dead. So was Cuddy.   
  
Sam Vimes was not, however. And he'd had enough years as a Watchman to   
count that as a blessing in the face of Cuddy's death.  
  
Neither was Angua.   
  
But she had stolen the sheets.  
  
And she slept on his side of the bed.  
  
And she was a werewolf.  
  
And a vegetarian.  
  
Vimes couldn't remember the last time he'd had a real vegetable, if you   
didn't count the turnip filling in so many of Dibbler's dodgy meat   
pies. He supposed that chips were 'vegetarian'. No, those were fried in   
fat. Well, dammit, what was? Mashed potatoes, without gravy, although   
without gravy mashed potatoes weren't really food -- maybe window sealant.  
Cheese pizza. Toast. Coffee. Possibly some of the more harmless forms of   
curry. All of which were good things to think about if you wanted to   
avoid the many problems at hand.  
  
He lay on his side, a few inches from her, and spoke.  
  
"It won't work," he said quietly.   
  
"It'll be like all the other places," she answered, without turning to   
look at him. "Pseudopolis and Sto Lat and Quirm, sooner or later   
someone picks up a pitchfork."  
  
"Or a sword."  
  
"Never had a sword before."  
  
"I'm too old for you. And I drink."  
  
"You drank."  
  
"All right. But you're a nob and I'm not. That'll raise eyebrows."   
  
"You think the fact that you're my commanding officer won't? I'm a   
werewolf, we're not very sociable people anyway."  
  
"Angua, you do realise who you're talking to?"  
  
"You don't like werewolves. I don't blame you. Most of us are horrible  
people."  
  
"I like you," he said. She didn't answer.   
  
He rolled off the bed, and pulled on his britches. She watched as he   
walked, stiffly, to the washstand, and drew some of the water up in   
his hands, rubbing his face.  
  
"You've got a scar on your back, looks like an arrow," she said sleepily.   
He began to shave.  
  
"I was knifed by a drunk," said Vimes, between strokes of the razor.  
  
"Your right arm?"  
  
"Stray ricochet, crossbow bolt off of someone's helmet during a riot."  
  
"And the one on your hip?"  
  
She saw the tips of his ears turn red.  
  
"Bumped against a hot clothes iron once," he muttered.  
  
"Shouldn't think you knew what one was," said Angua. He set the razor   
down, aligned it Hubwards with care, and wiped his face, turning   
around. For the first time she saw his bare chest in good light, and   
she blinked. The marks on it weren't scars, really, so much as   
/stripes/ -- as if someone had bleached his skin in angular, irregular   
lines.  
  
"And those are from a dragon," he said, when he saw the look on her   
face. "My reward for trying to save Sybil Ramkin from being eaten. They   
don't hurt," he added, and ran a thumbnail down one of them, to prove   
it. She winced.  
  
"You see?" he said, coming to stand at the foot of the bed. "I'm too   
old for you. I have no class, no style. I'm not charming. I'm not   
particularly strong or handsome. I apparently don't eat vegetables at   
all. I hate small talk. I am an imperfect human being. Carrot   
would -- "  
  
" -- show me several fine examples of dwarf bread, before trying to   
court me by introducing me to the fine civic architecture of Bloody   
Stupid Johnson," she finished for him. "I didn't choose Carrot. I chose   
you."  
  
"Then you were wrong. We have nothing in common," he said. But inside,  
there was a small voice saying that nobody'd ever /chosen/ him before.  
Things had just happened. If it came to a choice, he'd never been it.  
But here he was. Chosen. Chosen against /Carrot/, for god's sake.  
  
"All right. Say this isn't going to work, then," she said. "Why don't   
we make it work today? And then we can try again tomorrow. After all,   
it isn't so hard to keep it going for a single day."  
  
"And then another?" he asked, though it wasn't really a question he   
needed answered.  
  
"Like in the Watch. You do your shift, and then you come back tomorrow   
and do another. You get by with what you've got."  
  
He put his fingers to his lips, an unconscious gesture that he probably   
didn't even know he had. Angua did, though. It meant he was thinking.  
  
"What are we going to do with each other, Angua?" he asked.  
  
"Well, helping me find a spare pair of trousers would be favorite," she   
drawled.   
  
"Lance-constable Angua, fined five dollars for loss of trousers," he   
said faintly.   
  
***  
  
We know the happy ending, even when the story is new to us. The brave   
guard captain is knighted; the Watch receives a new dart-board; their   
ranks swell to fill the new guard-houses around the city. The lady gets   
her man. A courtship, a wedding, all in the normal way of things. Normal   
for the Disc, anyhow, where a romantic moonlit walk can take on new   
dimensions of terror.   
  
But what about the other guy? The rival for the good Lady Angua's   
affections, who graciously conceded defeat?  
  
Well, you know what they say about Guards.  
  
Eh?  
  
But I thought everyone knew --   
  
Well, all right, not everyone, but --   
  
All right! They say that women like a man in uniform.  
  
And Susan Sto Helit is certainly no exception.  
  
END  
  
  
Mwooooahahahaha.... 


End file.
